Page 66

Your devoted pupil,

Thomas Hawthorne

P.S. Should Julian write to you complaining that I have departed without sufficient preparation, please disregard his assessment. I am thoroughly prepared; I possess extra socks.

Adelaide refolded the sheet carefully. "Extra socks. His grand preparation consisted of extra socks."

"He purchased fourteen pairs and lost eleven of them within the first fortnight."

"In what manner does one manage to lose eleven pairs of socks?"

"Thomas possessed a unique talent for misplacing items. He once left an entire specimen case behind on a London omnibus."

"A case containing two weeks of field collections?"

"Indeed. Yet he expressed delight, claiming the loss proved the specimens were valuable enough to attract thieves, thereby confirming the worth of his research."

Julian's tone had relaxed as he spoke, the usual tension in his jaw dissolving into quiet ease. He sat with the journal in his lap, his shoulders relaxed and his blue-gray eyes bright with a memory that brought no immediate pain.

Adelaide wished to preserve this unguarded moment where Thomas's name prompted a smile rather than a retreat. Reaching for another letter from the stack, she looked up.

"Shall I read the next letter?"

"Please do."

She read two additional letters written by Thomas, both filled with earnest observations regarding the natural world. Julian provided commentary, correcting Thomas's botanical assertions while laughing softly when Adelaide pointed out that Thomas's early errors matched those found in Julian's own initial field notes.

"Thomas inherited your early mistakes," she observed teasingly.

"He inherited nothing of the sort; I exercised far greater care."

"You recorded the wrong juniper species," she reminded him. "You cannot claim flawless accuracy."

"That represented a single oversight."

"It represented seven distinct errors; I counted them personally."

"Your accounting is biased."

"My accounting is accurate. There is a distinct difference."

Julian let out a genuine laugh—a clear, unrestrained sound that broke through his usual reserve. Adelaide looked up from the page to find him observing her with an intense, warm focus that stilled her fingers.

He looked at her with the same quiet intensity she had noted in the opera box and across the dining table—present, focused, and completely unguarded.

Looking down, the letter trembled slightly in her grip as she smoothed the delicate paper against the desk.

Julian reached forward to steady the page, his fingers resting over the edge just as hers did.

Their hands touched. His rough fingers brushed against hers, the calluses from long years of travel touching her skin.

Neither drew back.

The library fell completely silent. Adelaide remained conscious of his hand resting against hers—its warmth, weight, and the faint pressure of his touch. She could hear their even breathing while the mantel clock measured the passage of seconds.

Looking up, she saw Julian gazing down at their joined hands, his expression holding a raw vulnerability.

"Adelaide," he whispered softly.